


Fashionably Late

by tsurai



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4740464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the tumblr prompt: <i>Cullen/Dorian Soulmates AU? <3</i></p><p>"<i>Maker’s breath, this is absolutely the worst timing,</i> he thinks distantly."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fashionably Late

“Ah, I’m here to warn you. Fashionably late I’m afraid.” The words drop onto Cullen like a sack of bricks, driving the breath from his lungs and he stares at the moustachioed man in front of him in a haze of terrified awe. The mage who is undoubtedly his soulmate. Cullen barely catches him when the man stumbles, the warrior’s heart thundering in his chest.

For over thirty years he’s traced those words, written in an elegant, slanted hand over the planes of his chest. He’d wondered what kind of person would one day say them to him. As a Templar in aftermath of Kinloch Hold he mused over what sort of message they would carry, desperately hoping it wouldn’t include the demons or blood magic that seemed to trail him from Fereldan to the Free Marches. Turns out it does. He can’t get away from it.

Cullen misses the next words, but looks to where he –  _Dorian Pavus_  his mind whispers – points, to the pale woman outlined by firelight and the twisted creature standing beside her.  _Maker’s breath, this is absolutely the worst timing_ , he thinks distantly. The Commander part of him is already analysing the situation, throwing out plans and dismissing them just as quickly. Another, larger, part is shrieking  _soulmate, speak to him, you have to let him know!_

“Cullen, give me a plan, anything!” the Herald urges, breaking him from his reverie. It’s a relief, to have the decision on what to do next taken from him. Still, something in him cracks a little as he turns away.

“Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force; use everything you can,” he says to the Herald, unsheathing his sword as he orders the troops. He doesn’t look back at Dorian or notice the grey eyes lingering on him.

* * *

“I didn’t race here only for you to drop rocks on my head!” Dorian comes close, so close that Cullen’s skin thrums with his proximity. It’s distracting, and leads to him speaking his first direct words to the man without thinking:

“Should we submit? Let him kill us?”

He turns to look the man in the eyes and sees the exact moment when realisation strikes him – Dorian’s eyes widen and he sucks in a sharp breath. If not for the seriousness of the situation, the silliness of the expression would make Cullen smile. As it is, the wounded Chancellor interrupts before either of them have time to react.

* * *

In the flurry of escaping Haven, caring for the camp, and finally moving to Skyhold, he has few chances to speak to Dorian. Perhaps it’s for the best, considering their first real conversation turned into an argument.

 _For Andraste’s sake, a Tevinter mage is_ my _soulmate!_  He is doubly glad for the time to process it.

But the day comes when Cullen looks up from a scout’s report in the courtyard to see the mage watching him from a window. His lips pull into a hesitant smile without his permission, and his heart beats double-time when the man smiles back.

* * *

Cullen manages to wrest a rare moment for himself and, gathering his courage, makes his way to the tower where he’s been informed (by a smirking Leliana) that Dorian often spends his time. All courage flees when he rounds the corner to see the man has already carved space for himself in an alcove.

The clinking of his armour gives him away before he can think to flee. The man looks up from his book.

“Ah, Commander, might I inquire why you seek to grace me with your presence?” The words are teasing, but also cautious. Cullen has made him wait far longer than is proper.

“I just, ah, wanted to thank you,” he stutters, desperately hoping that the fur mantle is enough to cover the red creeping up his neck and knowing that it is not. “For warning us about the Elder One, I mean.”

Dorian closes the book and uncrosses his legs. “No need to thank me. I was already on the outs with the Venatori, after all. It didn’t do much harm to my social standing to help the Inquisition.” It’s an obvious deflection, but Cullen lets it lie, for now. He has something else to ask, after all.

“Well, I was thinking…” Dorian’s brow goes up, and Cullen can see his struggle to bite back a smart comment. Nonetheless, he continues. “I was hoping that, if you are amenable, you would perhaps join me for a round of chess this afternoon. Uh, in the courtyard.” His hand rises to the back of his neck, rubbing at the heat growing under his collar.

Dorian is quiet for a moment, a soft, almost shy smile growing on his face. “I would be delighted.”

* * *

The first time Cullen accidentally brushes Dorian’s hand as they play, the man jerks back as if stung. Cullen blinks, but is careful not to touch him for the rest of the game.

The fifth time it happens, Cullen lets him set the offended hand down beside the chessboard, then reaches slowly and deliberately to let the tips of his gloveless fingers rest over the darker man’s knuckles. Dorian stills but Cullen feels a spark of triumph when he doesn’t pull away.

* * *

“Cullen,” Dorian murmurs, pulling away a bit to breathe. Cullen tugs with one hand in his hair, the other at the man’s hip as he peppers chaste kisses around Dorian’s mouth. “Cullen,” he interrupts again, putting both hands on his armoured chest but not pushing him away. “Will you show me? I want to see.”

Cullen doesn’t hesitate. He’s already seen his words, at the base of the mage’s throat.  _Shall we submit? Let him kill us?_  written in the chicken scratch he uses when writing notes for himself.

He pulls off the cloak, letting the fur fall where it will, and unbuckles the armour. Dorian helps him shed the padded tunic and undershirt in one go, leaving the ex-Templar bare chested in the fire light.

Dorian traces the words over Cullen’s heart. “Fashionably late, hm? I suppose there’s no better way to introduce myself,  _mei compar._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I recently realized I never posted this from [tumblr](http://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/), so here you go! Please come prompt or ask my questions about my fics.


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